In the Morning When I Wake Up
by stargazing.from.earth
Summary: February Calder can be hostile, but only when threatened. Other than those instances, she's sweet, kind, and friendly. She's the girl that's been through a lot, but keeps fighting on. When she moves to the Murder House, she doesn't expect to find friendship or love or anything. She's just trying to get away from the darkness. Little does she know, she's moved into the center of it.
1. Introduction

When I was growing up, my mother always told me to be afraid of the darkness, so when I was little, I would request a nightlight, make scared faces at the dark, to please my mom. She explained to me, when I was a little older, not to be afraid of the dark, but the _darkness_. These were two different things, she said.

Be afraid of the darkness, the evil that spreads through the world, and hides in shadows. The things you don't need to believe in or see to be real. Be afraid of those things. This was her biggest life lesson to me, the only thing I can really remember now that she's gone. I have the memories of her, when she was healthy and happy and not giving me advice. The only advice came when she was depressed, surrounded by the darkness and desperately trying to keep me out of it.

The thing is...

I think it might be too late for me.

I think I may have already given into the darkness. But what if that darkness, that scary, concentrated evil, is what I need? What if that's what keeps me sane and alive and in the end, gives me light? What do I do then?

In a house filled with dark and darkness alike, how do I save myself?


	2. Make One Move and I'll

"Is this it?" I ask, glancing back at my dad as our car rolls to a stop in front of a large, almost castle-like house.

My father nods sheepishly, looking at me but not meeting my eye. Before I can open my mouth to speak, he raises his hand and says, "I know, I know. It's a little rough around the edges but with a little love and care, a little hard work, it could be-"

"Absolutely gorgeous," I finish his sentence, smiling up at him and seeing his eyes light up. "It's beautiful the way it is, Dad," I say truthfully, gazing up at the old, imposing building. It's rather grand, and definitely larger than we need for just the two of us, but there is something that gives it a sense of decay in the vines wrapping around the house and the front gates, in the overgrown rose bushes. When you take it all in at once, though...All of it kind of adds to the charm.

"You really like it?" He asks in a small voice so unlike him that I'm a bit taken aback, snapping my head around to read his expression.

I nod enthusiastically, biting my lip as I try to understand what he's thinking.

"Wait until you see the inside!" He exclaims excitedly , opening his driver side door to grab our bags. I push my door open and follow him to the back of the car.

I can't decide if his excitement is just a show for me or if he is genuinely excited about the prospect of a new home. The past few months- the past year, at that- have been extremely difficult for us, and I've gotten good at telling the difference between fake enthusiasm and the real deal. This time, though, I don't know what to label it, but I don't think the move was entirely for me.

When my dad came home from work a few weeks ago with a new, almost suspicious spring in his step, this house is the last thing I would've guessed. As it was, I didn't guess, just followed what he wanted without a world, picking up on his postitive attitude, and now I'm here, standing in front of my new home and it seems unreal. Unreal that we uprooted our lives and that we even get a chance to have a fresh start.

Terrible things happened to us. Terrible, unspeakable things that made everyone look at us differently, and made things really awful for a while. Terrible things I don't want to think about, so I push the thouights aside and pick up a stack of boxes from the back of our SUV.

"Where's my room?" I ask, trying to keep my tone light, to not let the sadness creep through. I see my father's jaw stiffen and know that I haven't succeeded- like me, he's gotten good at sensing when my mind is stuck dwelling on an unhappy past.

He smiles slightly- a more controlled, tight smile than before- and gestures up the stairs as we walk through the entrance to the house. "Just head up the stairs. It's electirc blue, very spacious. Can't miss it. I think you'll like it."

I nod, throw a cautious smile his way and then trudge up the flight of stairs, stopping only when I reach the doorway of what is now my bedroom. I walk in slowly, taking in the shockingly bright color of the walls, my eyes adjusting to the change of lighting. Everything about the room is bright- kind of overdone, with the walls and the pale pink bed frame in the middle of the room. The trim around the windows is painted a light, lilac and honestly? I don't like it. Any of it. I wish everything was white. I sigh heavily, setting down my pile of boxes and sinking to the floor. I rest my head on my knees for just a second and then jump up to my feet. I'm determined to be positive about this new life, to dwell in the negative space inside my head that's been there since everything happened.

I dig into the first box with gusto, coming across my many books of poetry- classical poets, contemporary ones and even a few journals with work of my own. Peering around the room, I decide the best place is to store them in the closet in the corner. Balancing my books in one hand, I shove the door open with my other and step inside.

I turn the light on as I go in, finally able to see the vast expanse of the storage space. I start walking toward the back of the closet, where there are a few garment bags still hung up on a rolling clothes rack in the corner. Fingering the zipper of the first one, I contemplate opening it, getting a glimpse of the previous owner's life, but I know their tragic story and I'm not sure I want to delve into that dark tale.

In my hesitancy, I notice a sound behind me, soft and cautious. Footsteps. One two one two one two. I count them. They're not my dad's. After the incident last year, he limps, with one foot a much heavier step than the other. No, these are even, healthy.

"Trust me, you don't want to learn about their lives." It's an unfarmilar voice, husky and interesting.

I spin around suddenly, coming face to face with a boy. In my surpise, I drop my books and they clatter to the floor, thumping and echoing loudly as they go. My fingers grab for the object I've held in my pocket since everything happened a year ago.

I point it at the boy's throat, saying, "Make one move toward me and I won't even hesitate."

The boy, almost a full foot taller than me, looks surpised- startled by my hostility. He takes a single step back, but doesn't look afraid, instead just openly examines my face with his dark eyes peering into mine. "That wouldn't really do anything to me, you know. It can't anymore."

I laugh at him, at his act of invincibility. "Yeah, I'm sure you've been through a lot and you're strong and whatever. But a knife to the thoat will hurt anyone, trust me."

"Trust _me_, you can try, but the only thing it'll do is get some blood on your floor and I'll be back within five minutes," he says, pushing his curly blonde hair out of his eyes, smirking at me at the thought, "You can do it if you want. I promise not to haunt you."

I roll my eyes at him. I'm still not sure if this boy is dangerous, but I'm getting the sense that he's got some mental problems. "I'm not going to murder you to see if you'll come back."

"Fine. Give me-"

"Feb?" My dad calls up the stairs. "What was that thump? Are you alright?"

I shoot the boy a look, putting my knife in my pocket and whispering, "Stay in here and I'll deal with you in a minute."

I leave the closet, shutting the door behind me and cracking my bedroom door to yell down to my dad. "Yeah, I'm fine. I just dropped a few books." I head back to the closet, taking a deep, calming breath before I open the door.

There's no one in there. Just the pile of dropped books on the hardwood floor. Confused, I peer around all the crevices and cornerns in the closet, but he's nowhere to be found.

I turn around to go downstairs and screech.

He's laying on my bed, just lounging there like it's his job. "You know, the wall color in here is awful...Might have to call the gays in on this one."

"Get off my bed now. Why are you in my room to begin with?" I screech at him, careful to keep my voice low enough that my dad won't hear it. I reach for my knife, but it's no longer in my pocket.

"Oh, are you looking for this?" The boy asks, standing up with my knife in his hand. "You wouldn't slit my throat, so..."

I gulp, waiting for him to come over and stab me, but then he turns the knife on himself and runs it along his throat. I stop breathing as a pool of blood seeps out and he falls, half onto my bed. Luckily, it doesn't make much noise, but my eyes can't leave the blood pouring onto my floor. He's finally still and I close my eyes, trying to block it all out. Clearly, this isn't happening and I'm hallucinating. What could've caused that? I think back on it. Stress...And I took four Motrin in the car earlier. Are you supposed to do that?

"Don't worry, we can get Moira to come clean this up." It's his voice. I don't understand. It's not possible. But it's his voice, clear as a cool summer night, with the pleasant lulling timbre.

"Am I dead?" I ask him, keeping my eyes closed. "Did something happen and I'm completely, totally dead? I saw what happened and it's not possible you're alive. You were bleeding _everywhere._" Why am I even entertaining the idea? Of course he's not alive. Of course I'm hallucinating.

He laughs out loud, chuckling at my words. "I'm not. I haven't been for a long time, almost three decades." I can hear the smile in his voice, almost a proud tone to his words.

"I don't understand..." I mumble. I open my eyes and he's sitting there, in the pool of his own blood, but there's no mark on his neck- not even a scar. Not anything. And he's fine, just talking to me like everything is normal.

Almost three decades? That would be...in the 1990's. How...?

"Oh, gosh," I say. "I don't really..." The room starts spinning and I find myself out cold before I can say "_feel well"._


	3. Goodnight

The first thing I notice when I come to is the stabbing pain in the back of my head. Like a bad migraine, but much sharper, directly where my head touches the...pillow. I'm laying on a bed and the edges of a blanket have been folded under my body, as if someone came in and tucked me in. Sweet dreams. Except I remember what happened and I most certainly did _not _have sweet dreams.

I hear voices arguing, rising loudly over me. Not exactly next to me, though...more like...near the closet. I've always been good at pinpointing sounds.

"Mr. Langdon, you should not have scared her like that." It's a wrinkly old woman voice, if you can imagine it, and it's scolding, like a grandmother would scold her grandchild. "Frankly, the poor girl has been through enough and she doesn't need anymore trauma added to that."

How does this woman know that I've been through trauma in the past? And who is she talking to? Surely not the boy. The dead one. Or the one who should've been dead.

"I know, but she would've told her father if she didn't realize what I was..." It _is _the dead boy. His voice calms me down a little bit, although the thought of that is entirely unreasonable.

I hear a sigh, presumably from the woman, and then she continues, "There could've been a better way to do that then scaring her so badly. Poor sweet girl. She'll want to move, she'll be so terrified when she wakes."

"You don't think that she's right to be terrified?" There's a slight mocking tone in the boy's voice. "You know the things that live in this house."

"Yes, but everyone in the house has agreed not to harm her, this girl, or her father. We've agreed that we'll allow them to live here."

"They'll die anyway," the boys says darkly. "They always do. And you know that, too."

There's a heavy silence for a moment and my breathing quickens, afraid that I've been found out. I don't know what these people are doing here, but their words are frightening.

"Oh, hush, Mr. Langdon. You'll wake the girl, and scare her more."

I breath out a sigh of relief and start to visibly stir, so they'll get the idea that I'm waking up. I open my eyes to see two people peering down at me. One is "Mr. Langdon", the blonde boy I met earlier- and watched die. The second person is an old, wrinkled woman in a maid's outfit, with a shock of bright red hair. She smiles gently at me.

"Oh, hello, dear," she says, reaching over and squeezing my hand. "I'm Moira, your maid. Your father has gone out in town. You took quite a fall when Mr. Langdon made his...er, scene... earlier."

My eyes widen. So they admit to it? They're not even going to try and cover it up?

"That was..." I fumble, looking for the right words. "That actually happened?"

She sits down next to me on my bed. "Yes, dear. We weren't going to tell you right away, but it seems it's too late for that. You'll find that many of the inhabitants of this house have met their demise prematurely. Their souls live on, but physically, they aren't much different from you, other than that they cannot die- because they are already dead."

"So...he's...a...ghost?" My words are stunted, great pauses between them as I try to connect the dots. It seemed like a joke earlier, when the boy said it. I thought he had been playing a trick on me, else I had been seeing things. But it's true.

"Mr. Landgon died in this very room in the year 1994. "His story isn't mine to tell, however. If you have questions about the house, I'll gladly answer those." She smiles at me warmly and kindly and I can't help but have a surge of positive feelings toward her, no matter how strange the words coming out of her mouth are.

"Is it...only if you die in this house? If you die...else where, do you stay there?" I ask, thinking of my mother, but staring at the blonde boy over the old woman's head. He's staring right back and there's a faint trace of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. Something about him makes me want to smile back.

"No, only this house. When you go into town, you'll find that a lot of people have taken to calling it the Murder House, for all the killings that have happened on the property. I assure you, though, that all the spirits in this house have promised to be on their best behavior with regards to you and your father."

I nod, as if it makes sense. As if everything she's saying isn't beyond absurd. Why am I not disbelieving? I know that all of this defies logic, and shouldn't be true- but I believe her, and I believe that my eyes don't deceive me. I saw what happened to the boy, and he stands in front of me with no scar.

"Dear, you must be very tired. Your father will be home in the morning," she says, as she gets up, smoothing her dress down and straightening up the spot where she sat on my bed. "I'm going to continue cleaning the house. My quarters are in the basement, so if you need me, don't hesitate to call down."

She turns to leave, but I stop her. "Moira," I call softly.

She looks back at me, her face warm as she gives me a smile as soft as my tone.

"Are you a spirit, as well?"

She nods, looks ashamed. "Yes. My death happened a long time ago, you see. I've been in this house for longer than most of the spirits. It can get lonely."

I look at her for a second, her old uniform, her pinned back hair, her cloudy eye and her bright one and then say, "You don't have to be lonely anymore. Goodnight, Moira."

She smiles at me, walks over to me to smooth my hair back and then says, "Goodnight."


End file.
